by Etta Faire
I eventually settled on a dark brown sweater and the yellow and brown argyle infinity scarf my mother gave me for Christmas.
I checked myself in the mirror. I looked just as weird as I felt, wearing dress pants on a day I didn’t need to, for a job that didn’t require them.
I peeled off the slacks and opted for leggings and boots, and checked my reflection again. Better, but I still felt like a version of myself I no longer really recognized. Dressy Carly.
I decided to leave early so I could stop by the barbershop on my way into work to see how George was doing and to find out if the things we both saw in the forest were similar.
But first, I called Mrs. Darcy again. My heart raced when she answered. I felt a little like one of the die-hard members of the Executives Club, harassing her.
“Hi, Mrs. Darcy. This is Carly Taylor again. The medium. A friend of Sylvia’s. Sorry to bother you,” I said, while I finished my morning chores.
“You don’t give up, do you?” Her little-old-lady voice said, with attitude.
I tried to be quick before she could hang up. “I know you don’t believe me that your daughter is my client, and honestly, I wouldn’t believe me either. So, I thought of a way to prove it to you. Would that be okay?”
She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t hang up either.
I grabbed the plates and bowls drying on the side of the sink and put them away as I talked. “On the night of Sylvia’s murder, I know she left an outfit for her cousin Myrna to pick up. She asked you to give it to her or Myrna’s boyfriend, Paul.”
There was a long pause.
“Mrs. Darcy?” I finally said after what felt like half a minute.
“There’s no way you could have known that,” she said. “I didn’t tell anyone. I barely remember that myself.”
“I’d like to come over and talk to you about it,” I said.
“I… I don’t know what to say.” She paused. “I have to think about it.”
“What about this Saturday?” I asked.
“I have to leave for bridge at 11:00. I suppose you could come over at 10:00. But I’m not buying anything.”
“Perfect. Because I’m not selling anything. What’s your address?”
“If you really are a medium who’s a friend of Sylvia’s, she can tell you the address. We haven’t moved.”
She clicked off. No one ever trusted mediums. They always had to test us. I was pretty sure no other profession went through such scrutiny. “Oh, so you’re a doctor, huh? I’ll be the judge of that. What are the four common signs of heart disease?”
I looked at my watch. I had to hurry if I wanted to stop by George’s barbershop. I grabbed a bagel and opened the kitchen door, realizing it was raining. So much for looking cute. I threw my hair into a bun and grabbed the umbrella from the antique stand by the credenza. Straight-haired people had no idea the frizzy damage rain did to curls.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled up to the barbershop just as the rain decided to let all its anger out on my car. It pounded my windshield and threatened to drench me if I dared to open my car door.
I stared at the barbershop, stopping myself from grabbing my phone and looking up why in the hell red, white, and blue poles indicated a barbershop. Why was that even a thing?
Carly, you’re stalling.
Truth was, it wasn’t just the rain. I didn’t know how to confront George about what he saw in the forest. Maybe I didn’t want to see that he was really getting dementia, or maybe I didn’t want the rumors to be right about the Dead Forest.
I opened the door. Rain smacked against my arms and leg before I even had a chance to open my umbrella. I ran out, turning just enough to click my car alarm. Ten blackbirds sat on the top of my Civic. In the pouring rain. All of them staring at me with angry, beady eyes and wet feathers. I turned back toward the barbershop, put my head down, and picked up my pace.
“Damn birds,” I yelled as I opened the door.
“Birds?” a sly and familiar voice said. “What about birds?”
I closed my umbrella and looked up. Knox was sitting in a barber chair with George right beside him. The thin blonde man was in his usual black shirt and black pants, both tailored impeccably, legs crossed. The only person I’ve ever seen not look at all awkward in a barber chair.
Wait a second. Did he get his haircuts here?
“Birds are bothering you, Carly? Is that what I just heard you say?” Knox said, leaning forward, an eager smirk forming along his lips.
George’s face went as gray as his hair.
“No. I’m fine,” I said because something told me this was not the time to talk about my problems with birds.
“What are you doing here? I thought you got fancy haircuts,” I asked Knox then thought that through. “Not that George’s ten-dollar haircuts aren’t very fancy. Because they are lovely.”
“Is that why you’re here?” Knox said, standing up. “To get a lovely hair cut?”
I mindlessly played with my frizzing damp curls, somehow refraining from saying, I asked you first. But still, I didn’t answer and we both stared at each other a second too long.
“George and I are old friends,” he said, looking at George. “I was just leaving, actually. Good to see you both.” He looked me up and down on his way by, making me feel even more ridiculous in my Dressy Carly look.
“You look very nice today,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said as I pulled the silly pretentious scarf off and stuffed it into my purse.
A strange idea came over me and I couldn’t help it.
I turned to the pale blonde man as he was leaving. “Maybe you can help me with something. I hear you’re very good at getting hard-to-find items,” I said in almost a whisper.
He didn’t answer, never even twitched.
“I’m looking for a book.”
“A book?” he said, in that slow, deliberate way that made me know that was an unusual request. “I don’t deal in books.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I should’ve known that. It was a crazy idea.”
“I can check around, though. What’s it called?”
“On Sacred Grounds. Ever heard of it?” I watched his reaction carefully. If he’d heard of it, he didn’t let on. He didn’t flinch. Maybe he wasn’t a shifter, after all. I had no idea what I was dealing with in this town.
“I’ll ask around and see what comes up.” Like a magician, he seemed to already have a business card in his hand, which he extended out for me.
“Call me Tuesday between 11:00 and 2:00 to see if I’ve found it,” he added.
“One more thing,” I said to Knox before I left. “Uh, let’s maybe not mention this to Justin. Our little secret?”
He smiled. “A secret? From Justin? I’ll look even harder now.”
I stared at the card. No name or address. Only a number. Something told me I shouldn’t call it. And something else told me I shouldn’t have even asked about the book.
He opened the door. A gust of wind smacked the side of my face, and I found myself looking up for birds.
He looked up too. “No birds now,” he said, smiling. “Only rain.”
As soon as he left, I turned to George. “How do you know Justin’s neighbor?”
He shrugged. “You shouldn’t know him either. And, you should stop talking about birds, stop mentioning books. Stop talking so much, Carly Mae.”
That was a strange response. “Why?”
He shook his head. “It’s just not a good idea.”
I shrugged it off. George had no idea I was trying to end the curse on this town. He was just an old-school bird shifter. Someone afraid to show who he really was and thought everyone else should be that way too. He may have had a point.
“Was he harassing you?” I asked. “I could talk to Justin about it.”
“No,” he said way too quickly. “No need. I’m fine. Knox was just asking me about a fancy haircut I can’t do here.” He turned to straighten up the sp
ray bottles and combs lined up along the counter in front of the mirror. I could tell he was done talking about Knox. I was done talking about him too.
He looked up at me in the mirror then back down at the bottles, his face shaking just a little. He was nervous.
I stepped closer to him. “There were birds following me into your barbershop, just like that time a couple weeks ago when they followed you. Any idea why?”
“No. But that’s strange, all right,” he said without further explanation even though I was pretty sure he could have elaborated. “That why you came by? To talk about our bird problems?” George chuckled stiffly as he took the broom by the cash register and swept up the already clean floor.
Old George wasn’t that old. He was in his late 60s, if I had to guess, but he’d always been “old George,” even twelve years ago when I was first introduced to him, back when he should’ve been “middle-aged George.” He was just someone who always looked old, probably as a baby too. Thin, hunched over, deep wrinkles.
“I came by because I think we have something in common. Something beyond random birds following us.”
“That so?” he said, raising a bushy, graying eyebrow at me.
“I saw something weird in the Dead Forest too. I was hoping we could compare notes.”
He dumped a load of nothing into the trash then began sweeping up the air again. “I knew you couldn’t have come in for a haircut. I’ve only had but one lady customer my whole life and that was Ethel Peterman way back in the 80s.”
I knew Ethel well, only from a channeling, though. She was Jackson’s great aunt, a bit of an eccentric woman who chain smoked and over-tanned herself. I also knew George was changing the subject. There was a lot of that going around Landover these days, especially whenever I mentioned the Dead Forest.
“What’d you see?” I asked.
“I wish I could remember,” he said, backing into the barber chair just behind him. It swung a little as he talked. “I passed out and I don’t remember a darn thing. And that’s the God’s Honest truth.”
His face lost all its color as he stared at his scuffed-up brown work boots that were swinging lazily along with his barber chair. The same boots that probably reminded him every day how practical and logical life needed to be, like a good, solid pair of shoes you could count on.
“The thing I saw was short and boxy. A strange, dark shadow that moved quicker than I’ve ever seen a human move, or even an animal,” I said.
George looked up at the ceiling. “Sounds like you have quite an imagination. That isn’t what I saw.”
I pointed a finger at him. “I knew it. You do remember what you saw in the woods. What did you see?”
“Nothing. I don’t remember much, but what I do remember is nonsense.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about the word nonsense lately, George. You wanna know what I’ve decided? It is not synonymous with the word unreal. We need to compare notes about our nonsense and figure this out.”
George closed his eyes like he was willing me to leave. “I am very sorry, Carly Mae. But I cannot help you. I don’t remember anything from the day I passed out. And I think I might honestly have dementia.”
“Nobody asked you about dementia,” I said, now wondering if George had started the rumors about his mental decline himself so he’d have an excuse not to answer difficult questions.
I looked at the clock on the wall above the mirrors. I needed to get to work. I went to the door and grabbed my umbrella. “Did Knox tell you not to talk about things?”
“No. No. Why would he do that? You’re being ridiculous, Carly Mae,” he said.
I grabbed my scarf from my purse and put it back on. Just like how George’s boots were probably a reminder of how solid and normal life needed to be for him, my infinity scarf was a reminder of how ridiculous those solid, normal things felt when I tried to pull them off.
“You let me know when you get your memory back,” I said, looking around for the birds before I ran out to my car. “There’s something to this nonsense, and it’s time we all started talking more about it.”
Chapter 12
No room at the inn
Rain poured in “I will punish you” sheets of gray as I waited in my car outside the Purple Pony for it to let up.
I was in no hurry to get out, and not just because the birds could have followed me here. I recognized the huge white truck out front. Paula Henkel was either at the Purple Pony or the Bait ’N Breath next door. Either one was too close for my comfort. I avoided that woman whenever possible.
I checked the clock on my cellphone, debating about turning my car off and heading in. I was going to be late.
Paula was probably at the Bait ’N Breath, anyway, buying more polar bear food. (Paula Henkel was a known shapeshifter, but I was pretty sure I was the only one who knew it.)
I looked out at the trees surrounding the strip mall, just a few here and there, swaying in the wind of the storm. Those birds were back and they seemed to like me a little too much for my tastes. I turned off the car and let my forehead rest against the coolness of the window, checking for any signs of birds. Was this my new normal?
What looked like a shadowy head peeked out from one of the tree trunks and the hairs on my arm shot to attention. I pulled my head back from the window, my heart pounding in my chest. What in the hell was that?
I took a deep breath. It’s just your imagination, Carly. You’ve been thinking way too much about the Dead Forest lately and those birds following you, and now you’re seeing shadows where there aren’t any. Look, there’s nothing but…
I threw open my door and took off running, forgetting my umbrella or that I had a hood on my coat, jumping over potholes, never checking the trees again. I tripped on my way to the curb and fell right into a gutter puddle, finally pulling open the Purple Pony’s door to safety like a woman narrowly escaping the killer. Because that’s exactly what I knew I was.
I blinked into the brightness of the room, trying to catch my breath and look normal, and not like a 31-year-old woman who just let her imagination get away from her.
Rosalie never even looked at me. I expected her to say something like “Did you leave any water outside?” or “Why are you dressed up, Fancy Nancy?”
She was too busy having a staring contest with Paula Henkel in the middle of the store as I shook my dressy clothes off on the mat.
Paula wasn’t at the Bait ’N Breath after all. Her head was tilted to the side, her usually-spiked, short, bleach-blonde hair had fallen limp against her forehead, her hair still damp from the rain. She swept her bangs away from her eyes and leaned in closer to Rosalie, who did not at all seem intimidated.
Rosalie pointed at her as she rested the other hand on a nearby stool to steady her bad hip. “She is a paying customer like all the rest of your booked-until-the-end-of-summer ones. It’s not my fault you don’t like her…” Rosalie stopped herself when she realized I was watching them. “Oh hi, Carly.”
“What’s going on here?’ I asked, nodding a hello to both women.
Neither one answered so I dripped my way to the back room to put away my things and dry off a bit, listening at the door the whole time.
“She told me she’d rather stay at your house, anyway. And she’s scaring my customers,” Paula said, her gruff voice raising into a yell. I guessed they were talking about Rosalie’s cousin who was staying at Paula’s.
“I thought your customers liked to be scared at the bed and breakfast. You once told me you were selling dark history and ghosts along with those awful frozen crepes I heard you served most mornings.”
“They are fresh crepes. I get a lot of compliments.” Paula said. “And it’s one thing to pretend your bed and breakfast is haunted by a suffragette, and it’s another thing entirely to have one of your guests claim to be ‘tracking down a bloodsucker’ in Landover. A vampire, of all things. She brought stakes. Big wooden ones. Showed me one yesterday. I don’t know if you noticed, but s
he’s pretty graphic about what she’s planning to do with them too.”
I was standing in the doorway to the main part of the Purple Pony, trying to listen in without having to be dragged into the conversation.
“Honestly,” Paula said. “I think she’s a danger to herself or someone else.”
“That is a bunch of bull,” Rosalie shouted, even though she’d said the same thing herself the other day.
Paula continued. “Do you want to know what she did all day yesterday? She went vampire hunting. Came back telling stories about it to anyone who would listen. Talks nonstop about how she’s planning to trap this poor animal, whatever she deliriously thinks is a vampire. Some sort of a shadow.”
I sucked in a gasp. A shadow?
Rosalie sat down on the stool by the cash register. “Well, what do you want me to do about it?”
“It would be nice if she could stay with you.”
“I don’t have room for her.”
“You have a house. You don’t have a couch or an extra room?”
Rosalie’s house was a small cottage that featured a fun maze everyone had to walk through in order to get around the wall-to-wall books and apothecary ingredients. There was barely room for Rosalie.
“No, I don’t, so it’s a good thing she’s already paid good money to stay somewhere with fresh crepes.” Rosalie was shouting again. She fanned herself with her hand, her neck growing red in blotchy spots. “She’s only here for a few more days. Just tell her to stop talking about vampires.”
“Don’t you think I tried that? She’s unstable and scary. Talking about crazy things like shapeshifters and vampires.”
It was strange that a known shapeshifter would doubt there were shapeshifters in the world. And vampires were just another type of shapeshifter. They just shifted into bats and drank blood.
I thought about that one. That was probably it. Paula Henkel didn’t want to house anyone openly “hunting” for shapeshifters of any kind, real or fictitious. If word got out about it, it might change business for her, no matter what anyone believed about them. This new revelation made me think harder about her customers.
